You’re too weak.
You’ll fail to protect her.
She’ll see you for who you are.
And once that happened, Mira would discard him just like how his parents had discard him.
Chapter Twelve
IFINALLY KNOW WHATit means to be loved.
Zacharie hasn’t ever said the words, but his actions speak so loudly that even if he did, I probably wouldn’t hear them anyway.
My love tank has been overflowing since moving into his home. He’s there for me like no one has ever been there for me. He cares about what I like and don’t like, remembers every small preference I mention in passing, and he never tired of answering the gazillion questions I peppered him with when I asked for his help with my next book.
Even now, I can feel his eyes on me as we walk through the federal building, his hand warm and steady at the small of my back. The hallways are all clean lines and fluorescent lighting, the kind of institutional architecture that makes everyone look vaguely guilty. Agents in dark suits move past us with purpose, their gazes sliding over me with professional disinterest before catching on Zacharie and sharpening into recognition.
The women, though.
The women have been giving me the side-eye since we stepped through security.
I try not to notice. I try to focus on the mission—we’re here because protocol requires us to be interviewed separately about Braxton, and anything I can remember might help catch him before he hurts anyone else.
But it’s hard to ignore the way a redhead in a pencil skirt looks me up and down, then glances at Zacharie with an expression that clearly says:Her? Really?
I smooth down my cardigan and remind myself that jealousy is unproductive.
“This way.” Zacharie guides me toward a door at the end of the corridor. “I’ll be in the next room. If you need anything—”
“I’ll be fine.” I make sure to smile so he’d stop worrying about me. “Go save the world or whatever.”
A ghost of a smile crosses his face before he disappears through an adjacent door, and I’m left alone in what looks like a standard interrogation room. Metal table, uncomfortable chairs, one-way mirror that I’m definitely not going to think too hard about.
The door opens behind me.
“Mirabella de los Reyes, isn’t it?”
